Grace and I spent this past weekend in New York with her best friend and her mother (who is one of my dearest friends; I know, I am fully aware of how lucky I am!). They turn 10 exactly 7 days apart from each other, this week and next, so we were celebrating their big transition into double digits.
The weekend was gorgeous. The sky was a saturated, autumn blue and days were warm. We rode the subway, had dinner at Balthazar, went to a wonderful show on Broadway, danced on the big piano at FAO Schwartz, clinked white wine and Shirley Temples in a toast at dinner. We took a carriage ride in Central Park,, ate cupcakes from Magnolia in a deserted park in the soft dark of early evening, walked up and downtown, visited mecca (Dylan’s Candy Bar), and had sushi for lunch.
The girls wanted desperately to play on a playground and so we did, walking into Central Park late in the afternoon on Saturday. I watched them running around, their joy palpable, aware of it won’t be long until they won’t be caught dead at a playground. My favorite moment in a weekend crammed with happy ones was our walk home from dinner on Saturday night. Park Avenue was empty, the air held the last gasp of October’s warmth, and the girls ran ahead of us, their laughter ringing in the night air.
As usual it is the in-between moments that move me the most. I walked down the street, chatting easily with a friend I cherish, watching my daughter and her daughter dancing ahead of us. Those ten minutes were life at its richest and most wonderful, and I knew it as I stepped through them. As we rode the train home on Sunday, Grace turned to me, eyes shining with tears. She told me that she was really sad the weekend was over, but that she knew she would never forget it as long as she lives.
Neither will I.
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